


Sail to New Shores

by Varaen



Series: A Flame For Freedom [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Varaen/pseuds/Varaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One of the Istari ponders their impending task, and a few other things, as their ship sails east.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU owes everything to admired-aulendil over at tumblr, who originally planted this idea in my head, and woodlandcrowns, who allowed me to throw a few ideas her way and gave them back all shiny & improved.

By the time the shore vanished beyond the horizon in the west, Helge was thoroughly sick of waves and the sea and the constant wind.

"Helge," he whispered once again under his breath, tasting the sound of his new name on his tongue. It would take some time getting used to, just like the fana he would be limited to for the new future.

In a way, Helge was luckier than his peers. While he would miss the shapeshifting that came so easy to him, this flesh of a seemingly mortal old man was similar enough to an aged version of his preferred form. He had retained his long red locks and acquired an equally long and red beard, heightening his resemblance to his teacher and his oldest student both. His eyes were blue now, rather than golden, and his skin had lost his favoured metallic sheen, turning to a boring amber-ish brown that was liberally dusted with freckles instead.

Only his colleague Saruman had remained this close to his accustomed fana, silver hair lightened to a more natural-appearing pure white, and a white beard, too. They were both of Aulë's lot, that they clung to their habits should surprise none. Even their chosen aliases were suspiciously close to their known chosen names. Helge the dedicated, because he was rightfully proud of his best qualities, and Saruman the skilled because he was a lazy sod who could not be bothered to do more than translate his name, Helge suspected.

He was still not convinced that the employed amount of subterfuge and secrecy was indeed necessary or expedient. The elves of Middle-Earth, regardless of their ancestry, were not stupid, and would notice their peculiarities sooner or later, and while an individual mortal may not live long enough to notice, their tales survived for much longer and would put an end to their anonymity sooner or later, if their method of arrival did not.

Honestly, whose idea had it been to sail east along the Straight Road and land on the shore as if that was something that happened regularly? Once again, Helge felt as if he was the only one who was properly prepared for this task. Gandalf had an excuse, he supposed. The wandering Maia had been reluctant to accept this appointment, doubting his suitability until the last moment and Radagast had always been as scatterbrained as the small birds he so adored. But Alatar and Pallando had had ample time to prepare, just like Saruman, and one of them had even volunteered.

Nonetheless, Helge was the only one who had spent the last months researching and preparing. He had taken his leave from the forges of Aulë early, going first to Taniquetil to ask Eönwë for advice, and a few of his Vanyarin acquaintances who had fought in the War of Wrath next. He had known Sauron once, when he was still known as Tevildo, but that acquaintance predated even the Two Trees, and much had changed since then. He had even finagled his way into the halls of Mandos to talk to Celebrimbor, who was the one to have the most recent insight into the state of mind of the wayward Maia. Helge hoped that his brief visit would aid in the healing of the young elf that had suffered so much at the hands of a former colleague.

At last, his path led to Tol Eressëa, to question some of the more recent arrivals to Valinor about the general situation in Middle-Earth, and to find teachers for the more common languages in the east. Contact between the Ainur and the newcomers seldom occurred, and his proficiency in languages like Sindarin or Westron had been sorely lacking, not to mention those languages that were common farther east or south. On his way back, he had passed through Tirion and commissioned the set of crimson robes he was wearing now, along with a pair of sturdy boots of dyed leather, red, a travelling bag and a belt, also of dyed red leather, and a variety of other small or not so small things that may prove useful in the east. In the end, his path led back to the forges of Aulë, where he forged a sword for himself as well as a staff that he coated with a layer of copper and set with a red jewel to fit his chosen colour scheme. Helge had always been known as a perfectionist and overachiever among his peers, a reputation he had earned rightfully. Neither his appointment as one of the Istari, nor another name-change would be able to change that.

 

* * *

 

By the time the other shore appeared on the horizon in the east, Helge was not only thoroughly sick of waves, the wind, the sea, water in general and the rocking of the ship, but also of the company of his fellow Istari and all their quirks and mannerisms that had once seemed funny or endearing to him. The journey over the sea was stripping them down to their bare essence and entwining it thoroughly with their hröar, turning them more alike to the Children of Illuvatar. Through this process, large parts of their memories blurred and faded, their content to arcane for a physical being to comprehend or even contain. He slowly came to understand why Aulë had advised him to craft a staff, as his powers slowly seeped into the object.

He was in a mood to throw himself into the sea and swim the rest of the way as he endured Saruman once again droning on and on about something or other, but even this most recent transformation had not divested him of his fiery nature and the subsequent aversion to large bodies of water. Instead, he distracted himself by imagining more and more convoluted ways of throwing Saruman overboard. Ossë had always been fond of gifts, and he may even have Saruman wash up on the correct shore once he was done playing with him.

But Helge had learned long ago that the fulfillment of his most impulsive desires would not turn out the way he imagined, so he sat down with his back against a mast instead, stretched out his long legs, pulled the wide brim of his hat down to cover his ever and settled down to doze through the rest of the journey as he should have long ago.

 

* * *

 

Landfall happened more or less the way he had expected. Since none of the Istari had an affinity for wind or the sea, their vessel had been enchanted to steer into the right direction, and Maiar of Manwë had steadily filled the sails to spare them the effort of attempting to catch the wind. Those same Maiar had pushed the ship straight into a harbour. So much for secrecy.

The ship was soon berthed securely, a feat that could be ascribed to the elven sailors rather than the efforts of its passengers. Helge had become familiar enough with the handling of a boat to at least throw them the correct ropes, while Saruman watched imperiously and unmoving with his arms crossed. Radagast rushed hither and thither in an attempt to be helpful, while Gandalf, Alatar and Pallando had taken great care to appear otherwise busy.

Upon leaving the swan-ship, they were greeted by a silver-haired and silver-bearded elf. His dark brown skin and steel blue eyes betrayed his pure Nelyarin ancestry, and Helge recognized him as Círdan, one of the Unbegotten and Lord of Mithlond. Contrary to the suspiciously disinterested elves on the pier, he greeted them in ancient Telerin and with a conspiratorial wink.

“I have taken the liberty to smother their curiosity preemptively with a little enchantment. I assumed that you would prefer not be in the center of attention as soon as you arrived. If you would join me for, ah,” he looked to the sun to gauge the time of day before he continued, “lunch? I might be able to help you out and speed you on your way, wherever it may lead.”

Helge was relieved that he would not have to scramble for some sort of explanation or enchantment to explain or hide their arrival away, convinced that none but him would even try to make an effort. All but him and Gandalf declined Círdan’s invitation, more or less politely. They left quickly, while Helge and Gandalf let themselves be led through the city as Círdan showed them around.

Mithlond was surprisingly similar to Alqualondë and the many smaller surrounding harbours of the Falmari, especially considering how long their inhabitants had been sundered by the sea. The sweeping architecture was less flamboyant, and the white buildings were constructed with the local limestone instead of Valinorean white granite, or simple bricks with white plaster, but otherwise, the similarities were astounding. Helge was enamoured.

As blessed as Valinor was, and more exciting than Almaren could possibly have been ever since the arrival of the elves, Middle-Earth was new and exciting in all the best ways. Helge felt inspired and enthused in all the best ways, imbued with a new zeal to understand and create that he had not even noticed diminishing in the last centuries.

He had never doubted the rightness of him volunteering to become one of the Istari. Apart from the fact that he was one of the most skilled, powerful and versatile Maiar, he had something to prove, old debts to repay and an ancient guilt to soothe. 

This enemy the elves and mortals of Middle-Earth feared, Sauron the abhorred lieutenant of Morgoth, could have been him. Helge still remembered the time with a mix of nostalgia and revulsion, when he had been devoted to the mad schemes of Melkor, zealous for boundless creation. He had realized almost too late that Melkor’s only driving desire was not order, creation or domination, as he had affected, but the indiscriminate destruction of everything his fellow Ainur might conceive. Helge had vanished from Utumno almost immediately after that epiphany, professing his sincere regrets and apologies at the feet of his original teacher and sovereign, Aulë.

His intimate knowledge of the fortress’ layout had proven invaluable when it had been razed later, but Helge was convinced that he could do more to help fight against the evil that Morgoth or his servants wrought. This was his opportunity, he was not about waste it.


	2. Chapter 2

Círdan proved to be a gracious and accommodating host. Despite being clearly aware of their origin, and inevitably also of their nature, he never pried, but listened attentively and offered nuanced advice. Helge felt more sanguine already, confident that Sauron would be easily thwarted with allies like this one.

Even for an elf, Círdan was surprisingly levelheaded, and Helge was glad to have exchanged his company for that of his more irritating cousins. Gandalf was less overbearing, blending his composure with a fondness for subtle mischief that made him rise in Helge’s esteem.

Helge left the next morning, while Gandalf decided to linger in Mithlond for a while longer. He was given a courier horse to speed him on his way to Imladris, which he had chosen as his next destination.

As it turned out, the information he had so painstakingly collected on Tol Eressëa was basically true, but also a terrible combination of outdated and incomplete, which turned most of his research useless. The libraries and loremasters of Imladris would help him amend that, or so Círdan said.

 

* * *

 

The swift steed carried him confidently across the continent. When he realized that the animal knew the way and would not even stray from the path at his command, he let her run free and spent the journey watching his surroundings instead.

The land was wild, and there were few settlements along the road. Whenever Helge passed through one of those, the humans inhabiting it came out of their houses to gape at him. It took him a while to realize the reason.

Everyone he saw on the road, those he passed at the wayside or in any town and those that moved in the opposite direction, was clad in rather drab shades of brown, grey and green, with the occasional blue thrown in. His crimson attire had to appear very flamboyant to them, not not mention his elven bay horse, which was both larger and more healthy than the puny animals the villagers had around.

More than a century of civil war within the former kingdom of Arnor had impoverished the population, and it showed. Helge saw none of the smaller or greater signs of prosperity that were so common all over Valinor, and had been just as abundant in Mithlond. There was no art, no music, but instead quite a lot of dirt. He had expected better from the descendants of the lauded allies in the fight against Morgoth, and struggled to contain his disappointment.

It was a relief to finally reach Imladris. He could almost taste the difference in the air, oddly similar to Mithlond, for all that one lay by the sea and the other at the foot of a mountain range. The path into the valley was so well concealed that Helge wondered if he could have found it at all, were he only equipped with the usual five senses this mortal form should possess.

The meandering path was scenic without sacrificing protection. Helge could see where the mountainside had been altered to create ample opportunities for ambushes and defensive positions, changing the course of the small rivulets that crossed the trail from time to time. If an enemy reached the front gates this way, it was because the defenders were dead.

He could not help the fond smile that spread across his face. Their ingenuity was one of his favourite things about the children of Ilúvatar, and the Noldor in particular tended to express that ingenuity in ways that appealed to Helge on a fundamental level. The way the trees to the side were arranged and trimmed to frame the houses to the far side in an ever-changing favorable light was not bad, either, but Helge’s ability to truly appreciate growing things was limited at best. Even the admiration he felt for Yavanna could not change that.

The architecture however was a thing of beauty. The stonework had an almost organic flair, seemingly growing out of the mountainside to form graceful arches and gracefully netted walls. The only thing that looked like solid stone and tiles were the roofs, and the pillars that bore them. It was a captivating amalgam of styles, some more familiar to Helge, some less, with a few entirely foreign elements.

An elf with rust brown hair greeted him in the small forecourt that was adjacent to the last narrow bridge he had crossed.

“Greeting, stranger. I am Lindir, majordomo of Rivendell. Before I can bid you welcome, I need to know where you come from, and where you acquired your steed.”

His suspicion amused and worried Helge. Was the situation so dire that it was necessary?

“Ai, Lindir o Imladris! I am Helge, currently of nowhere. Círdan of Mithlond provided me with this horse.”

“I bid you welcome then, traveller, and ask your forgiveness for my earlier discourtesy. We seldom see a man riding an elven steed. Those few are elf-friends and well known to us. I worried.”

Lindir invited him closer with a wide arc of his hand, much more hospitable all of a sudden. It was a disconcerting contrast to his earlier icy courtesy, which only made Helge worry even more. He knew things must be dire if the Valar deemed it necessary to send out him and his colleagues, but he had expected to have at least a few decades to himself to settle in properly and establish ties with those he deemed important to his cause. Furthermore, there were few things that Helge loathed more than being forced to discard his well-laid plans and improvise instead.

He observed everything as he was led further into the sprawling estate, mentally filing away all the peculiarities he noticed about the architectural style, the building materials, the furniture and inhabitants they passed and everything else that caught his eye. Although his conscious mind was hampered by the nature of his incarnate form, his subconscious was still capable of feats that were impossible for mortals and challenging for elves. He would revisit those musings later, when he had time and leisure to do so.

Within a few short moments, Lindir had shown him to a comfortable guest suite and invited him to the communal dinner that would take place in the great central hall they had passed on the way and was shared, while not between all of the valley’s inhabitants, at least most of those who lived in the central settlement that most meant when they spoke of Rivendell.

 

* * *

 

He ended up staying in the valley longer than he had expected, and much longer than he had planned. Imladris was a centre of learning, the greatest in the west this side of Belegaer. The unique cross between scholarly bustle and intense silence made Helge feel almost at home and most reluctant to leave. It helped him focus, and it did not take him long to come up with a new and better plan. Originally, he had wanted to travel and explore the continent until he found the right place where he could best work on his task. Long nights in the library and long talks with the residents had given him better ideas. Eriador was in dire need of a stable influence, and Helge would provide.

The ruins of Ost-in-Edhil were perfectly situated to watch and influence the entire west of Middle-Earth. Restoring the ruined city would spare him the effort of searching for a suitable place to settle by himself, and also present him with an opportunity to spend his spare time with something meaningful. He despised sitting idle and twiddling his metaphorical thumbs, but he could already foresee that much of his near future would be spent waiting. He needed a hobby to occupy his time. The direct proximity of the dwarves of Khazad-dûm was just a bonus. Or so he told himself.

Spring was almost over when he ran out of excuses, flimsy as his last few tries had been. He had made plans and discarded them many times over. The snow that blocked the high passes, but not the road south, had melted weeks ago, and every time he tried and came up with another reason to delay his departure by a few more days was met with indulgent acknowledgement.

Thus he stood in the central courtyard, his wide-brimmed hat once again perched crookedly on his head, Lacheleth’s reins in his hands. The evening before, Elrond had bid him farewell and invited him to return anytime he wanted with a smile that emphasized his resemblance to his ancestors, although Helge could not pinpoint which one of them. Lacheleth was loaded down with saddlebags loaded to the brim with gifts and supplies he had been given since he announced his departure. It felt like bribery, but if it was supposed to make him leave, or stay, he was not sure. It surely made him want to return before he even left.

His way south was as picturesque as it was lonely. The countryside was desolate and wild, and what few remnants of civilisation he spotted were overgrown ruins that had long since been reclaimed by nature. The land looked hospitable enough, despite being devoid of sentient life, and Helge could not help but wonder why it had not been reclaimed and re-settled after the beginning of this Age. He quickly found a rhythm of journeying that suited him and without expecting to, began to enjoy not only the solitude, but also the journey itself. Now that he had set himself a goal, he could appreciate the grandeur of the Hithaeglir to his left, the sublime beauty of the stars that illuminated the night sky, the verdant bustle of life that surrounded him. Everything felt fresh and new to his dull senses, exciting in a way that kindled in him a desire to sing as only melted ore and blazing forged used to be able to. He knew he would never live this down once he returned home. As he began to hum, flowers bloomed by the wayside.

**Author's Note:**

> I am [varaenthefallen](http://varaenthefallen.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, follow me for headcanons and pretty reblogs. My askbox is always open.


End file.
